Just another girl forging the beat.
Led zeppelin on her tee shirt, doc martins on her feet.
She walks with a stride
Then blames it on pride, when really it's the tight leather that surrounds her feet.
Play her any two songs and she'll just nod along.
She'll be wearing a new band in a week.
Letting trends set, before she takes a hold. Last week she liked her coffee hot, this week she likes it cold.
She went from liking guys with long hair to men who are bald.
And so on and so forth, now she's getting old.
Her youth waisted hiding behind a face painted with short lived fads.
'I'm a lesbian, this is how I was born, this is who I am, dad.'
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
When I died
Face down in the night
The ambulance
Parked outside
My friends
Much older
Carried me
Over their shoulders
Pumped full
Of something
On the couch
I felt nothing
They thought
I died
That night
In a sea
Of red
Barely breathing
Strapped to a hospital bed
They called
My Father
And
I never told
My mother
They told
My sister
She could have
Lost her brother
Morphine
Took over
And I
Went under
I should have died
Alone that night
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
My life,
These times,
The epitome,
Of a downwards trajectory.
My existence is but a career,
I wish to resign,
So consider,
Every crooked letter of this poem
As one step closer to my resignation letter.
Recognise this note,
As my termination,
Of a short life,
Of poorly attempted dedication.
Working this life,
For minimum wage,
With out a break,
Except a broken sense of direction,
Displayed.
Life is merely a career
And I wish to swerve,
I wish to veer,
I wish for my torn family,
To not shed a tear.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
Emotions thinner than the tin
That my dinner came from
Ambitions gone like my mind
At the party after prom
Skin scratched and stained
A life time of regret
Worth the pain
Not wanting to get out of bed in the morning
Legs gone lame
But no ones mourning
No reason to find direction
Writing plain, without discretion
Caring little and less about forged perfection
Living on a disposable income
Hoping I find long term affection
Still waiting patiently on that one discovery
Anything to separate myself from me
My shins from my knees
There's a windy city chill
But there's no use blaming the pills
Hands left hanging
Like a bandanna
Dangling, waving
From the homeless man's head
Expression couldn't make me a dime
In todays market of drones
Still feeling fine
Without staring into my phone
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
My whiskey habit is complimented then insulted by the ever temperamental voice of Jim Morrison,
I listen to Alabama Song by The Doors
I throw my pen and page
In an anger induced rage
As my mind recites the wrong words
To his poems and songs
His voice plays on repeat
All i can do is blame myself as the primitive synth dances it's oscillating tunes through one of my depleted senses.
My hearing
Mojo Rising's face crudely made into pop art painting by a fan, an idoliser's image
Suddenly the fender telecaster takes over the smokey airways
Hypnotising, mesmerising
as it fills the space between the barely conscious being and the walls that surround
The tempo of the snare, tom and high hat slows
I now have time to gather my ever harsh and bitter thoughts
Harsh like the whiskey, bitter like me
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
Night life fades to dead days
I looked at you and you didn't look the other way
You sat next to me by the bronze horse statue
In the heart of the city
On the seventeenth floor car park
Underneath the over head cranes
The sound of hollow trains
Screeched past then faded away
Like they had a better place to be
The company of a drink would have made the time fly
But alas, I was with out my flask
On this cool summer night
So high above the passersby
Telling each other poorly constructed truths
With a hint of carefully thought out lies
You creased your jeans
I rolled my sleeves
You dotted the I's
I crossed the T's
More than acquaintances
Less than friends
Popular amongst each other
Far from setting trends
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Years of being **** on
Taken away in a day
The small things in life
All fell into place
A package came in the mail
I got a new tattoo
I booked a trip to Brisbane
I get to see you
The corner store didn't have
The cigarettes I wanted
I tried a brand they had
Kind of glad I got it
I made a new song
On my second hand guitar
It's not very good
But it's my favorite so far
I got the bus for a students fair
The café I went to was closed
They let me anyway
Why? I don't know
Now I'm sitting by a steady river
On the outskirsts of the city center
Just my perfect day and I
The wind blew past and didn't shiver
There's not a cloud in the sky
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Good things don't happen to those who wait,
Good things happen to those who stay up late,
And study their books,
Of predetermined fate,
I know good things don't happen to those who wait.
Waste the day,
Stay up late,
Live life in a nocturnal state,
Of being,
And be that bird of prey
That hunts the mice of the day.
Stay awake,
Stay afraid,
Stay looking like five lines of *******
All white eyed and dry.
Look for lines, search for friends,
No more ink left in my pen.
Metaphors so vague, less vivid,
It's not hard to tell that I'm ******* timid.
Gaze from the window in your
Packed like sardines shack,
And shout to the city skyline,
The trains shout back.
Lie to yourself and 'live' under a light polluted sky,
If only for another night.
Give all you have to give,
Shiv who you have to shiv,
Just to get by.
In the end the sardine tin opens,
Right before we die,
Before we go stale and feel numb inside.
Everything is open but we're so shut out,
I'd rather die in the day,
Just like the mouse.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 3:25 AM UTC
Tonight I went to a house warming party,
Just to be nice,
When I really should have been at home,
With my hungover head on ice.
I didn't like most of the people there,
They bored me in fact,
Especially the cliche hippies with long dreaded hair,
Clothes, barely intact.
As the night went on,
The washed up ****** ****
Came through the gate.
One by one by one.
I don't have time for people,
They drain me.
Trying to be nice by buying minors alcohol,
But no one repays me.
The welcome wasn't the warmest,
I was patronised because of my mode of transport,
By yet another ****** ****
And his tattered up Jansport.
Eighteen years to realise,
That the public and I don't get a long.
Eighteen years later and I can guarantee,
That i'll be singing my own funeral song.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
The girl at the book store
With dark shoulder length hair
Fervent in the way she moved
And all I could do was stare
She approached me, dancing
'Can I help you look?'
'Sorry? Oh, I'm just glancing'
'Let me know if you need help finding a book'
She hung around,
No more than an aisle away
When I looked up,
Her body was in the way
'Do you stock Factotum?,
Then i'll be on my way'
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC